Turquoise Boy
by RuPou
Summary: How do we fall in love when the narrative isn't written by us? Kurt: Who are you when I'm not looking? Blaine: I'm a soldier in a sad charade, Kurt. But the way I see it, since Pavarotti, I've only been yours. Fearlessly and forever, right? Kurt: I'm never saying good-bye to you. (This story is a 'verse. The "chapters" are moments in Kurt & Blaine's relationship).
1. I Disconnection Notice

**I. Disconnection Notice**

_Hurry up, the stage awaits you. Don't forget to memorize your lines. Can you hear them congratulate you? Out of step, just can't find the time. Will we pass through undetected? Everything's right here inside our file._

_You're not so free to be so unprotected…_

Kurt didn't think it was an actual thing.

Really, can you blame him? It's something straight out of a crime film formula. It's that predictable thing that adds dramatic tension. It's a plot twist. It's not an _actual_ thing. Except, it is.

And suddenly it's something that's yawn inducing, if only at the dramatic tension. Suddenly it's not that predictable thing. Suddenly it's not a plot. It's not even something that should be considered entertainment worthy. Any such opinion that suggests otherwise is clearly the logic of a prime, grade-A fuckwit. No one should make entertainment of something they know not of because, more often than not, the movies and TV shows get it wrong – dead wrong.

He shivers, internally chastises his slip.

Dead – now that's something the movies and TV shows _do_ get right. It is the punishment for slipping. Just the simplest, absent-minded drop of a name and then it ends. Just like that. Few fates are worse than death, but the beauty of death? It's permanent. No more slipping. No more anything, just the cessation of breathing, of _existing_, presence carved out of the world's molecules and extinguished.

But he's getting ahead of himself. This isn't about the thing, peripherally yes, but not exclusively. This is, ultimately, a love story. An odd one, and a bit of an unconventional one, but still, a love story.

This is the story of how he, one Kurt Hummel, creator and CEO of _Blackbird Designs_, falls in love with Blaine Anderson, aka Devon Bartlett, the shy, quiet restorer of antique instruments. You see, the thing Kurt realizes is actually a _thing_ is this: Devon Bartlett is _Blaine Anderson_, federally protected witness for the prosecution of Anthony "Two Tone" Castellano.

Oh yes. Witness Protection is _actually_ a thing and it's the thing that when you raise, you bet your life, you go all in and even if you hold a royal flush, you still lose. What you lose may be insignificant, not particularly noticeable save for the constant, ceaseless erosion of your identity, like the jagged cliffs battered day in and day out by churning, salty waves, but it's still a loss.

Perhaps, that kind of loss is one of those few fates worse than death. Perhaps if one day you stop being you after twenty-seven years and start being someone else, still clothed in the skin and scars of your old self, you find yourself stranded, lost; you are the familiar unfamiliar. You are a citizen without a passport; you are the road map leading you back to somewhere you don't know anymore, because your destination has changed, has been irrevocably altered.

The unbeatable hand is only beatable when your poker face is all that's keeping you alive.

And Blaine? He had the best poker face of anyone until, one day, he didn't.

_Words and numbers spell out the price to pay. It simply states, "You're disconnected baby." _

_See how easily it sall lips away…_


	2. II Kissability

**II. Kissability**

_Look into my eyes, don't you trust me? You're so soft, you make me hard. I'll put you in a movie, don't you wanna? You could be a star, you could go far. You've got kissability. You sigh hard, don't you wanna? You've got twistability. You could be a star, it ain't hard…_

The rain falls heavy outside.

Gusts of wind splatter it loudly against the windows and deep rolls of thunder boom off in the dark, distant sky; lightning splices through the blackness, splashes of light flickering and dancing along the walls and floors of Devon's otherwise unlit apartment. They haven't had a storm like this in awhile, ferocious and fierce and unwilling to move along, instead choosing to hang on and linger, turning the everyday darkness of the sky into a tangle of violent slices and threatening booms of rumbling sound.

Devon throws his head back and moans, wanton and free, breathy and guttural, his hips rocking and rolling and gyrating atop the fire lit man beneath him. Where Kurt's hands clutch Devon's hips, his fingers bruise and caress the sharp angles and he meets Devon's rocks and rolls, his own hips snapping and thrusting. Devon gasps, a flash of discomfort spiking in the depths of his body and he's sure, absolutely positive that Kurt reaches places inside his body he never imagined accessible.

Thick and long, Kurt is so much bigger than any other guy Devon has been with, and regardless of how many times they do this, Kurt's girth and length stretch him, fill him, letting his body accept Kurt's blissful intrusion inch-by-inch. To feel and be filled, to feel _full_, it unravels Devon, drives him to bounce and rock and draw Kurt in deeper, deeper, as deep as possible because it's never enough, nothing is ever enough when it's Kurt. Not when every second of every minute of every day with Kurt would ever satisfy Devon's need for more of Kurt, always more of Kurt.

Kurt had come over in a burst of need, bottle of wine in hand. Devon spread out a blanket on the living room floor and lit a fire, not needing it for warmth but desiring the ambient, intimate lighting of the flames. They fell into easy conversation; they laughed and teased and there didn't seem to a need to rush things, despite the raging _want_ coursing through their veins – want to touch, to taste, want to kiss and suckle and_feel_ against each other, skin on skin.

And although they'd done this before, fallen into desperate, possessive grabs and tugs, limbs tangling and bodies writhing and using each other to get off, spectacularly and explosively, Devon found himself shy and uncertain. With the contents of the wine bottle gone, Devon wondered about boundaries of whatever this was between them, and he wants to know, wants to know if this is just sex, just them getting off with one another because they don't have anyone else, or is this more, is this something substantial, something tentatively budding into knowing and being known.

"Hey you," Kurt says softly, interjecting Devon's internal musings. Devon blushes, dips his head and listens as Kurt continues, "Where'd you go?"

Devon shakes a little, dislodging the haze of thinking too much. "Nowhere, really. Just, you know, lost in my head. But I'm here. I promise I'm here. With you, I mean."

Kurt smiles, a ghost of a smile really, but his eyes still crinkle in the corners and Devon feels it everywhere in his body, feels every shift and hustle of the molecules that comprise his skin. It's _Devon's_ smile, secretive and barely there yet intimate and deliberate.

"I know you are," Kurt reassures, smile still in place. "Penny for your thoughts?"

"Just a penny?"

Kurt raises an eyebrow, "You know I'd give you the world to know you, Devon."

Devon releases a shuddery breath. God. Kurt is seriously good at that, at delivering the heaviest of emotions gracefully and seamlessly. This particular instance, Devon's chest floods, nearly to bursting, and he longs for the moment that will splinter the already present crack for the last time and allow his heart to finally explode.

"You should – you should stay. The night. That is…um, well, that is if you – if you want too," Devon stammers, swallowing hard.

Devon sees Kurt open his mouth, like he intends to say something only to close it, lick his lips and swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing. He smiles warmly, lips spreading as he bends across the space between them, cups Devon's cheek and kisses him sweetly.

"I want to if you want me to."

Devon reaches out before Kurt pulls away completely, curling his slender fingers into Kurt's silky hair, holding him in place. He takes a deep breath, looks at Kurt with dark eyes, pupils he knows are dilated and blown impenetrably black with desire.

"I want to – I mean, can I – "

"Can you what, Devon?" Kurt supplies effortlessly following Devon's nervous self-censorship. "Just talk to me. I'll give you whatever – "

"I want – I want…to ride you," Devon says, fingers clenching and unclenching around Kurt's hair. "I want – yeah, yeah that's…what I want. To be on top since we haven't done…that, yet."

Kurt's eyes widen nearly imperceptibly and he manages a wavering breath before gripping Devon's hips and hoisting Devon into his lap. Devon squeaks, the curve of his butt neatly melding into the space between Kurt's parted legs. Open and immediately dirty, Kurt kisses him, and they're the missing pieces to a puzzle neither consciously acknowledged were incomplete. Their mouths and bodies mold together, Devon wonders how he'd been so blind, so ignorant to the rightness before kissing and being kissed like this, heady and like he is Kurt's air, food, water, sunshine, like the consumption of him is all Kurt needs to survive.

"Absolutely. How – where do you…here? Or in your bedroom?"

"Here. Now. Please? I just – I need to um…I need to feel you…" Devon replies, nearing hyperventilation stages with how quickly he pants. He dips his head, presses his face into the curve of Kurt's neck and breathes, and shivers.

Wordlessly, Kurt strokes the small of Devon's back, knows Devon needs a stretch of time to compose himself, to come back to himself because, with or without boundaries, with or without definition, this is sex, with Kurt, and it's always overwhelming. It's soothing yet not even remotely enough; Devon craves skin-on-skin contact, Kurt's hot palm against his own hot skin.

Although Devon wants to be on top, he relinquishes control, gives it over to Kurt and permits him to take the lead, which he does gracefully. One touch after another, and soon they're both naked, and Kurt's long, elegant-but-slightly-calloused fingers are deep inside his slick, hot, _tight _ass. On his back on the floor, Devon is spread and shamelessly rutting against and riding Kurt's deft, relentless fingers, appreciating the stretch and burn and fullness but needing _more_.

Looking up, he meets Kurt's gaze, direct and so intensely open, it assaults Devon's senses and yes, yes there it is, the beginning of the end, the inevitable final hit along the crack in his chest and he feels like he's going to break, to shatter into a million pieces. Yet Kurt is here, Kurt is touching him, working him open so painstakingly thoroughly, and the second he shatters, Kurt's here to un-shatter him and he's safe, home when he asks quietly, "You okay, beautiful?"

Devon nods, licking his lips nervously, and breathing not at all leveling.

"Yeah – yeah, I'm – mmm, God, you – you feel…so – so good but I – I need…more, just more?"

Kurt doesn't verbally reply, merely kisses Devon and seamlessly rolls them over and keeps kissing Devon softly, holding him gently, and waiting, waiting for Devon to take back the reins, waiting for Devon to set the rhythm from here on in. And if Kurt hadn't been holding him, keeping him steady and present and solid beneath his hands, Devon realizes he'd dissolve.

So he sinks, inch-by-inch, onto Kurt's hardened, velvety length, causing Kurt to groan and himself to gasp. At the hilt, he pauses briefly, can't quite figure why because he needs to move, moving is better, moving means incremental shifts between him and Kurt and the surrender to action, basic and instinctive.

He sucks in a breath, meant to be deep and steadying, but in reality it's nothing but a sharp inhale, not nearly enough to be sufficient. But his body takes over, knows exactly what to do, how to move – circular twists, deep rolls, rhythmic bounces and he cries out loudly when a particular gyration rubs the blunt head of Kurt's cock against the sensitive, spongy pad inside his strung out, hot body.

"Oh _fuck_, Devon. Shit, fuck, you feel so good baby, so tight…"

Now in control, Devon learns what twist or roll or rock elicits reactions out of Kurt and he chases them until he presses his palm against the smooth expanse of Kurt's chest and pins Kurt flat. Gritting his teeth, Kurt slaps his hands on Devon's hips, then the top swell of Devon's ass, then Devon's hips again, not guiding Devon's rhythm exactly, but rather seeking out another way to feel Devon's quickening movements.

The realization that Devon's close to his orgasm ambushes him and he's not ready; he wants more of this, Kurt beneath him, matching his movements, a shifting sublimation of their bodies and he's desperate to prolong this tandem euphoric free fall. This isn't just about his orgasm. It's also about Kurt's, to be the one to make gasp and writhe and moan Devon's name, only Devon's name, and it's a single-minded focus to claim Kurt, to be _his_.

"Oh god, I'm gonna – oh please, not yet, I don't wanna come yet, oh god, oh, oh god," Devon sobs, head tossed back and eyes closed, debauched concentration etched in the smooth expanse of his flushed face.

"No, no, come on baby, come for me, I want you to come for me, want to see you come while riding me, come on beautiful, fuck yourself on my dick, come for me Devon, come for me…" Kurt coaxes, breathless and panting.

Devon sobs again, heaving for breath, and he goes, pursues Kurt's filthy demands because under them lies the truth – Devon's his, all his, and meeting his demands means satisfaction and safe and rightness.

"More, more please? Talk, just…talk to me because oh god Kurt, this is – this is…"

"I know beautiful, I know," Kurt soothes roughly. "You – fuck Devon, you take me so well, so hot and so tight. No one takes me better than you so come on beautiful. I want to see you come on my dick. So gorgeous Devon, you're so fucking gorgeous when you come…"

It's too much and Kurt's near constant growls and the firm grip of Kurt's fingers pressing in, in, in to the supple flesh of Devon's ass, his body involuntarily clenches, muscles fluttering and tightening and he can only pump herself up and down, up and down, possessed and enraptured. He rises up, slams down and his heart is pounding, is almost certain he can feel Kurt's heart pounding through the length his body so greedily accepts now.

One more growl and one more sob (but who releases what sound, Devon doesn't know, can't tell) and he comes, explosive white light on the backs of his eyelids, body shuddering and twitching and heart pounding until he collapses on top of Kurt.

Kurt responds in kind, clinging to Devon and wrapping his arms around Devon's still shuddering body, faintly saying something that resembles the sound of Devon's name. He kisses the side of Devon's head and Kurt holds him impossibly tighter, tucking Devon's face back into the familiar curve of Kurt's neck where the lingering scent of his cologne intermixed with salt and sweat permeates, essential and raw. Devon breathes in, slips off Kurt's softening length, hissing as he does so, muscles loosening into the tell tale soreness of overuse and intrusion.

They roll, arms and legs a jumbled mess of woven limbs, and bodies curled around one another like messily scrawled quotation marks. Tangled together and breathing synchronized as they slide down the high in tandem, Kurt slides his fingers into Devon's sweat-damp curls and pulls, pulls back to kiss Devon over and over and Devon never wants this to end, never wants Kurt to slip away in the nebulous ether of passionate-but-brief affairs, of experiences only meant to be but a mere memory.

"You still with me, beautiful?" Kurt asks, lips hovering above Devon's.

"Al – always Kurt, always."

"Good. Good. Because I – I don't know what I'd do if you'd ever disappear on me."

_Me too_, Devon thinks, but doesn't say, says instead, "I'd come back. I'll always come back. To you."

Kurt's eyes water, pulls on Devon's hair again just enough to crush his mouth to Devon's, a bruising kiss stripping Devon's of breath that makes everything – Kurt, Devon, this, _them_ – feel dreamlike and distant. Even though the kiss is sloppy and off-center, it saturates Devon's senses and she wonders how he's gone so long without kissing like this, without being this open and this vulnerable.

"And I'll always be here for you to come back to," Kurt whispers.

They both smile, lips once more finding each other's in that perfect slip-slide of mouth-to-mouth, a connection that ignites all other modes of connectivity and Devon gives in to the inescapable rush of delicious emotion synonymous only with and to Kurt. They tangle together, breezy laughter passing between them, and Kurt rolls over, situating himself above Devon, readying them for another round, gasps and unintelligible pleas for _more, more, more, please more Kurt, need you, need you so much_.

So lost in one another, neither of them notice the darkened, shadowy figure standing outside the window, camera up and recording every single, salacious second.

_You're driving me crazy, give us a kiss…_


	3. III Hot Wire In My Heart

**III. Hot Wire In My Heart**

_Hot wire my heart_

_Hot wire my heart_

_Hot wire my heart_

_Like this…_

"Shit! Dammit!" Devon curses under his breath when he strikes his big toe against the leg of the kitchen chair he didn't remember leaving by the door, overloaded with old magazines.

Of course, he wouldn't be stumbling over damn chairs if that thunderous pounding on the front door weren't raucously reverberating through the previously quiet darkness. It woke him up from a near dead sleep and damn near scared him out of his skin. The second some as-of-yet-unidentified fist pounding on the door caused him to shoot straight up, fumbling over the edge of the bed in a fitful chaos of arms and legs. His eyes flew up to read the clock: _3:08 am._

Devon growls – a deep, low animalistic growl.

Seriously? Some jackass was knocking – no, _pounding_ – on his door at three o'clock in the fucking morning? What could possibly be this urgent, this damn _important_ at this time of night? Not to mention, no matter how many times he screams "Coming!" at the door, the pounding just continues, if not more urgent and forthright than the previous rounds.

Who could this possibly be, anyway? It's not like he really knew anyone; he'd been here for over a year, yes, but he didn't have friends, acquaintances maybe, and he likes his co-workers well enough but none of them are what one would call besties. Honest to God, if this is some weird friend of his neighbor mistaking the A and B after the number, he has absolutely no problem banging on the jerk's door because this is flat-out ridiculous.

Sure, Devon more or less makes his own schedule and he doesn't really need to go into the store tomorrow but still, if some jackass keeps him up all hours of the early morning with his/her drunken door pounding then he will be supremely pissed. He likes his privacy. He likes the quiet. He doesn't like to be disturbed. The principle of the matter stands – it's rude to bang on someone's door at this late (or early) hour.

Despite turning on every light Devon can remember to turn on and no matter how quickly he thought he was moving, the pounding just will not stop so by the time he swings open the door he is more than ready to punch whoever is on the other side of the door directly, and squarely, in the face.

Then, even through bleary sleep-filled eyes and rage, he recognizes the face: "_KURT_?"

Swaying in an attempt to keep his balance, Kurt smiles widely, goofily at Devon. Even through his drunken haze he can still make out what the shorter man, whom he'd only met a month ago, is wearing – a pajama set designed with little music notes and glasses.

Devon's dark curls, which are usually suffocated by volumes of raspberry hair gel, fall in messy, sleep-mussed strands around his face. While sleep lingers in the corners of Devon eyes, his face is alight with vibrancy and…well, anger, despite the still-bleary haze of slumber darkening the vivid hazel to a near impenetrable blackness.

Kurt can't blame him for that but damn, from where he stands all he can see are those deceptively strong shoulders and biceps, that trim, tight little waist and the shadow of new growth on Devon's cheeks.

"Devon! Hi Devon! Devon, Devon, Devon," Kurt rambles gleefully.

Devon sighs. Great, just great. Now he has a drunk Kurt Hummel on his doorstep. What is Devon supposed to do with this?

"Oh boy. How much have you had? And how in the hell did you get here?" Devon rolls his eyes, barely managing to say the last part of his second question when Kurt stumbles through the doorway and draping all of his weight around Devon's shoulders.

With an "oof" and an "ow" and a "son of a bitch," Devon staggers backwards. How the door shuts, he doesn't entirely know because currently, he is attempting with all of his strength and muster, to hold Kurt upright. Kurt continues to giggle and chuckle deliriously as Devon continues to struggle with him, and against, his own movements.

Because then Devon finally realizes that Kurt's hands are certainly, _definitely_ not stationary but rather roaming freely, intimately caressing him in places that he surely did not have leave to. Devon's cheeks instantly flush. The heat of his blush is startling in its immediacy. Not prone to blushing, Devon is gruffly, mulishly irritated by the fact that a simple, careless and _drunken_ caress of Kurt's palm forces the blood to the transparent surface of his face.

"Oh, oh, okay. Okay, yep, you're…um, okay wow. Kurt, come on now…Kurt!" Devon stammers before shouting in surprise when Kurt's wandering hand wanders down and grabs his ass.

Kurt laughs it off, nervously, but he doesn't want to appear angry even though no man, drunken or otherwise, has not touched that part of his body, in any capacity, in far too long. Blunt and rife with the too-much-too-little taste of desire, the brief caress – because, let's face it, that's what Kurt's touches _are_ – awakens the dormant need, the ever-constant-and-present-but-still-hibernating push and pull of want, want, want in the swooping pit of Devon's stomach.

Lighting quick and speeding through Devon's veins as if unleashed on the Autobahn, the heat courses, bubbling up under the first layer of skin and _burns_. It burns and it hurts and it feels so un-fucking-believable, just that one brief caress of Kurt's palm over his ass. How is it even possible to want so desperately, so sickeningly tangibly after just a caress? And not even a skin-to-skin caress.

But God, Devon couldn't get angry – getting angry with an already insufferably drunk person never results in anything positive so he tries to chalk that little feel up to nothing but Kurt's inebriated state. He tries not thinking that it is anything other than drunken, lonely desire. Yet that heat is still burning, it still is bombastically teetering over raw, suddenly and sharply oversensitive nerve endings and sparking Devon's synapses into too-aware awareness.

Between trying to keep his head straight, free of the fuzzy-yet-crystal-clear haze of his and Kurt's bodies upright, Devon sputters in his fight to ward off Kurt's rather explorative hands. Devon is barely able to breathe freely. This is a seriously messed up situation.

Devon has known Kurt for one month – _one month!_ – and while, yes, he'd developed quite the crush on Kurt, he's not foolish enough to actually harbor any thought or inclination that it would, or will, go anything beyond what has already occurred between them, which of course, is nothing but a handful of conversations and four coffee dates

"Devon, hi, hi you. I've been doing – yeah, I'm a little drunk but I dunno Devon, I just, well you know, I wanted to see you," Kurt rambles nonsensically with that stupid goofy smile plastered on his face.

Devon smiles politely and continues to struggle to keep both of them upright.

"Yeah, yeah I see that you're a little drunk Kurt. But um…but, why don't we – why don't we just get you onto the couch, okay?"

Devon manages to keep his tone calm, even. At twenty-seven you learn that it's just easier to be calm, even and _firm _with an inebriated person otherwise the scenario will more than likely spiral out of control. But then Kurt's smile slips into one that appears almost sly, seductive, and conspiratorial – as if he can see straight through Devon, as if Kurt possesses the intimate knowledge of seeing Devon naked and still holds the key, tucked neatly away in that little storage locker marked _Devon_ the moment they met.

Devon's polite smile stiffens into an unsure one just as Kurt whispers heatedly, "Couch. Yes. Let's go to couch, Devon. Or better yet! Your bedroom! I want you. And I _know_ you want me. You're like practically – I don't know, _vibrating_ with it. Fuck, Devon."

That smile remains plastered on Kurt's face, prompting Devon to chuckle light-heartedly and roll his eyes.

Oh yeah, Kurt is _seriously_ drunk.

Why Kurt had come here – well, the jury is still out on that one because it boggles Devon's mind. Or rather, it rattles Devon's mind so violently that he can barely think straight, he can barely see beyond the sharpened hoods of Kurt's blue eyes, thick and clouded and _black_, so brilliantly black with desirous want. None of this makes sense: Kurt's appearance at three in the morning, what he is saying and why his hands are _everywhere, anywhere_ on Devon's body.

Why hadn't someone taken Kurt back to his place? Why hadn't someone made sure that he got back to his own place, safe and sound?

"Sure, I want you Kurt," Devon states sarcastically, lightly, rolling his eyes for effect, and hoping to maintain some semblance of control over the tremors in his voice. "But why don't we just get _you_ to couch? You smell like a bar and I think some sleep would do you some good."

Kurt laughs goofily again and slings his arm around Devon's neck. With his other hand, he slips a single curl of Devon's hair between his thumb and forefinger and relishes in the silky texture of it as he rubs it between his fingers. And then before Devon can stop him, Kurt pushes him up against the wall of the hallway, trapping Devon between his arms on either side of Devon's head.

Devon gulps. His face is so close to Kurt's; his body is flush up against every inch of Kurt's. No amount of clothing can muffle or alter the curves, dips and delicious grooves of Kurt's body for they seem to matchDevon's, slide into place like puzzle pieces, frayed, tattered edges and all.

"Okay, um? Kurt, the couch is behind you. Why don't we get you onto the couch so you can sleep all of this off? Here come on, I'll walk you there myself," Devon stammers a bit at the beginning.

He is suddenly very nervous and very, very unsure. Kurt most decidedly smells like a bar, but underneath the cloying scent of tacky sweat and too-thick-multi-layered colognes/perfumes, crisp and clear and_undulating_ in tendril-like waves, slow and lapping as if it was the nighttime tide, was _that_ scent – chamomile infused after shave, the spicy tinge of his black pepper body wash and something so uniquely, _jarringly_ Kurt that it causes Devon's pulse to quicken unnaturally.

Because that smile – no, that _grin_, all wicked and knowing and so fucking irritating and baffling – is back on Kurt's face and Kurt's eyes narrow into a sultry, hooded expression that boils Devon's blood and sends every nerve ending flaring with fire and his stomach plummeting to the ground and through the floor.

"Tell me you don't feel something Devon," Kurt whispers a hairbreadth from Devon's lips.

Kurt's breath, beer-heavy and thickly warm with spearmint and _him_, flutters over the trembling skin of Devon's mouth, dancing a quickstep along the ridges of the pink flesh. Devon looks anywhere but directly in Kurt's eyes. Devon can't look in Kurt's eyes, can't bear to wade through that blackness any more than he already has in the strange, surreal turn of events.

Devon doesn't want it to, but it does – his heart widens, expands as if made of dough, rising and rising until it fills the entire cavity of her chest with fresh, warm stickiness. The very sight of Kurt, albeit highly and wildly intoxicated, all piqued with some sort of glorious yearning embedded in those expressive, wide eyes of Kurt's – it fucking _unravels_ Devon.

Kurt is all cheeks flushed, body thrumming and oh God, oh _God_ – his arousal, hard and solid and so, so_there_, pressing, pressing in, in, in against the inside of Devon's thigh topples Devon conscience, barrels into it like a battering ram. Kurt rolls his hips just then, subtly, fluidly and Devon body violates his conscience, basically rebels against it and his own hips lift upwards and inwards to meet Kurt's movements.

Kurt's eyes narrow, not angrily or in some sort of annoyed fashion, but rather into thin slits, tweaked in the corners with something akin to visceral pleasure – "I _knew_ it. Is it a bad time to invoke Shakira here? Your hips definitely _do not_ lie, Devon…"

Kurt's teasing remark seems to pull Devon from his fog. He slams his hips back against the wall and thrusts his arms upward and outward into Kurt's, successfully ripping them from their position on the wall. He slips under Kurt's right arm and turns on Kurt, face flushed but eyes now darkened with annoyance.

"You're drunk and this is highly, _highly_ inappropriate Kurt. At this point, I don't give a fuck if you know where the couch is. Find it on your own. _I'm_ going to bed. Without _you_."

Devon stabs the air with a pointed index finger in perturbed frustration and turns on his heel to retreat back to the warmth and security of his bedroom, locked behind a door and far, far away from Kurt's hot breath, wandering hands, and addictive hips.

With his back to Kurt, Devon misses seeing Kurt's face fall ever so slightly, switching effortlessly into astonished regret. It flashes suddenly, brightly for a split second before devolving into heightened and renewed determination, infused with the remnants of Kurt's inebriated haze. Devon is not getting away _that_easily. Kurt needs to have Devon, _be_ with Devon in some capacity – needs it like, like a cleansing rain after a violent dust storm, like the earth of skin, shrunken and parched from drought thirsting for the merest of tastes of Devon's skin, Devon's _mouth_.

Chalking it up to the brutal months of forced, torturous hibernation known as Post-Break-Up, Kurt practically burst out of his skin with the intense level of need to just – _explode_. Then Devon waltzes into his life, all quiet intensity and freshness and warmth, airy and musical in his awkward adorableness that bordered dangerously, precariously on the edge of sexiness.

God, Kurt just wants a taste, a fucking _taste_ of Devon, one taste to dull the ache in his chest and release the too-present tension and discomfort between his legs. Perhaps it is selfish, and outlandishly _un-him_ to seek out the carnal comfort of a man's body, a man he barely knows (although he certainly _wants_).

Perhaps it is a bit – okay, no, it's _a lot_ – oafish but even through his drunken haze, he knows he didn't make up Devon's wandering gazes, lingering and testing the boundaries of Kurt's awareness. He certainly didn't make up all those sneaky glances Devon threw him sporadically during their coffee dates, nor did he miss how Devon's voice tended to pitch upwards, breathless and squeaky, when Kurt came to the store.

He knows he didn't fabricate the flicking of Devon's tongue across his bottom lip when Devon catches the curve of his ass, the tight material of his jeans stretched taut, or the dilating of Devon's pupils when he smiles just so. Devon wants him, _craves_ him if that mutual hip-roll of his informed Kurt of anything.

So, what is so bad about reciprocally shared satisfaction between two consenting adults?

It's with that thought that sends Kurt barreling after Devon. His hand encloses around Devon's upper arm and then Devon is pressed up against the wall again, pinned between Kurt's outstretched arms and scowling up into Kurt's searching expression.

"Cut it out, Kurt. I'm not playing this fucking adolescent game with you. I'm tired, and _not_ interested,"Devon bites out through a seething flurry of breaths.

Kurt cocks his head as if the new angle would allot him a better advantage point with which to read Devon's expression.

Kurt lowers his gaze a fraction of an inch and takes in the suddenly very vivid hue of Devon's pink lips, the long lines of Devon's bare neck and the dips and bows of Devon's collarbone beneath his pajama shirt. Devon's chest, heaving under the flood of oncoming pants, flutters tantalizingly, and Kurt can feel – he can_feel_ – Devon's stomach tremble at the anticipation of Kurt's touch.

"I won't hurt you, Devon. Won't force you to do anything to do you don't want to do. But tell me Devon, do you _not_ want me touch you, taste you? Do you _not_ want me to kiss you senseless, to bury myself inside that perfect ass of yours until you can't do anything but pant my name?"

Kurt whispers the words, breathy and heated, as the tip of his nose travels delicately down the length of Devon's, testing and teasing and drawing forth whimpers. Despite Devon's better judgment, his hands lift up from their position at his sides and fist Kurt's shirt before flattening, palms down, across the expanse of Kurt's stomach. Devon just – he needs something sturdy, something solid to lean against, to use as support because with each tick, tick, tick of the seconds, his resolve weakens and no one – _no one_ – has ever talked to him like this.

Kurt isn't sure why he talks in such a manner; he is certainly not a prude, nor is he averse to "dirty talk" but given that he didn't share a history past a month prior with Devon, this kind of talk is bound to scare Blaine off more than turn him on.

But there it is, plain as day, written – no, fucking etched – in the contours of Devon's face: Devon is turning into the turning _on_ of his body, instinctively reacting to Kurt's promises, wrapped up with a bow, all visceral and primal. The heat of Devon's hands on Kurt's stomach distract Kurt just long enough forDevon to swallow thickly without Kurt's eyes watching his throat lurch and tremble.

"You're…you're _drunk_, Kurt. And not, not thinking straight. We should um, we should just, you know, go to bed – separately!" Devon bumbles his way through something that resembles a resistance but only really sounds, in his ears anyway, weak and half-hearted.

Kurt cocks his head again, smirks and says, "If you're worried about taking advantage of my – compromised state, by all means Devon, take advantage…"

Devon gulps. Okay, this situation is rapidly getting out of hand. He needs to put a stop to this. He is an adult, clear-headed and rational and seriously, Kurt needs to stop looking at him like that – like Devon is the ice cream and Kurt is the spoon. This is all kinds of wrong. Kurt is drunk and horny and for some odd, inconceivable reason Kurt desires Devon as a release, as a late-night hookup and on most days Devon would, in a heartbeat, give into Kurt's promises. Devon would lose himself in Kurt's touch, glutton himself on the taste of Kurt's kiss and the feel of Kurt's hands, so evidently expert and brutally graceful.

Devon would gorge himself on everything Kurt is so clearly vowing to but this early morning is not most days. No, it's not most days because this is Kurt, bright and effervescent and so damned _nice_ that it makes Devon;s teeth ache and this is not Kurt, it's not, and Devon's not entirely sure how he knows that because they've only known each other a month but Devon just _knows_ it.

And Devon knows, okay, he _knows_ much of this is because Kurt is lonely and still lost in the throes of grief over his break-up with Ethan, officially publicized only a few weeks prior. Devon wants Kurt, yes, but he most certainly does not want to be some drunken hookup, some wayward fling to take the edge off. He does _not_ want to be a one-night stand, even if the heat of Kurt's body is intoxicating, and the glistening of Kurt's bottom lip reflects in the light of the hallway, and that look – God, _that_ look – just keeps darkening until Devon can't see past the haze, is thrusting his hips forward, knocking head-over-feet into the well of want, need, crave, _desire_.

"Kurt," Devon gulps, "Kurt, please, _please_ let's just go to sleep. Yes, yes I _do_ want you, I do. You're fucking gorgeous and sexy and so, so _hot_ but this? This is you being – drunk and…and…horny and yeah, this – this isn't a good…a good idea, okay? And you – you really don't want _me, _okay? Just the idea of me to you know, fuck and take…the edge off…" Devon stutters out.

Kurt doesn't immediately reply, just presses himself even closer and drags the backs of his fingers along the soft paunch of Devon's belly under his pajama shirt, the tips of which hook under the waistline of Devon's pants. Devon's breath hitches and his eyes close.

No, no Devon can't handle this. He can't handle this much Kurt, clogging his nose, Kurt's scent burying itself into the tendrils of his brain, and the wild, abandon-like heat of Kurt's now-really-heavy and sturdy frame. He closes his eyes tight, against the onrush of aching want, of feverish intensity.

"Open your eyes and look at me Devon," Kurt commands softly, confidently.

Devon does as Kurt commands. Devon can't _not_ open his eyes and look at Kurt when Kurt is using that tone, breathy and hitched in places with thrilling dominance and presence. His breath hitches again; an uneasy tumble of weirdly tied together sounds bumbling through his lips much like a distorted whimper.

Silence and stillness wrap around them then, Kurt's fingers still drift lazily across the expanse of his stomach and Devon's fists re-tighten around the fabric of Kurt's shirt. He could easily escape Kurt now, one arm now bracketing the left side of Devon's head and leaving the other side open, vacant for Devon to find his retreat.

But Devon doesn't move and he isn't entirely sure why.

His brain is scrambled, his thoughts are mush, muddled by the feel of Kurt's touch and fractured by the slant of Kurt's eyes, wide and exploring and exposing Devon – intangibly placing him atop a rack and twisting and turning, stretching and pulling his until his muscles ache, his skin sizzles and he just…can't take it anymore.

"Even drunk, I know that I want _you_ Devon," Kurt says, dangerously low and thick. "You bite your lip when you're nervous, like right now. You cry when you laugh, _really_ laugh. You have an unhealthy addiction to anything coffee-flavored. And you have this really annoying habit of scowling when you're skeptical or just not buying the shit that comes out of people's mouths."

Kurt's eyes never waver from Devon's. Kurt emphasizes his point by brushing the pad of his thumb overDevon's quivering bottom lip. Seriously, how can Devon deny Kurt _anything_ now that Kurt has confessed all of _that_? Fitted together like a patchwork quilt, Kurt tugs and pulls on the disembodied threads of Devon's being and ties them together intimately, magnetically. Kurt ties them together like he knows Devon, treasures the imperfect perfection of idiosyncrasies.

Devon knows he can say no; they _both_ can say no but Kurt decides that Devon is actually the single most adorable man on the face of the planet, what with his wide and so, so vivid eyes and his tiny whimpers and his simmering strength, bravery wrapped around bravado.

Plucked from the very fringes of Kurt's fantasies, Devon is alight with incarnation and that realization just throttles Kurt, destroys and obliterates Kurt, soundly, masterfully. But that realization only forces Kurt into another realization – this would not be _just_ about taking the edge off, a one-night tussle of sheets and limbs and breathless satisfaction. Kurt is generally not used to these drunken bouts of epiphanies and right now, right now he certainly does not want an epiphany like that.

Because…well, because he's so close, so incredibly close to tasting Devon, _having_ Devon under his hands and thriving, all fluid and liquid and Kurt/Devon/galaxy while he thrusts in, out, in, in, so deliciously _in_, that he clamps down on his conscience.

No, not now – no nice guy revelations, he just wants and he's okay, he's more than okay, with that.

The revelations sink in, rippling outwards like a stone skipping across the surface of water and Kurt quickly wonders if he can renounce himself of this journey, of this dogged fervency to lose himself in the man currently pinned between himself and the wall? Kurt is a nice guy, he really, honestly is but that desire – blatant and bold and _there_ – takes over, shifting his body into autopilot and again, he just…_wants_.

So he takes.

Just leans down and aggressively subsumes his lips with Devon's, taking, taking, taking, without invitation or permission and for the briefest of flashes, he wonders if this is too much, too soon and if this is crossing all kinds of lines but Devon is returning the kiss, devouring the fervor and giving it back to Kurt tenfold, mouth slanting open and accepting Kurt's tongue, wet and hot and sloppy and still tasting of vodka.

And fuck – _fuck_, this is glorious.

Devon is knocked sideways a little, still upright only because Kurt's body is pressing Devon's against the wall and Devon's hands are deepening their clutch around Kurt's shirt and wow, just fucking _wow_. This isn't a kiss, it's _the_ kiss – of awakening, of the unfurling tendrils of fibrous desire that neither can remember ever feeling, ever imagining. They want and they take, a constant back-and-forth rhythm of changing angles and pressures, teeth sometimes clacking and nipping painfully at suddenly too-sensitive flesh.

Their bodies are both literally vibrating with want and uneasy doubt yet they continue until Kurt wrenches his mouth away, only by necessity and needing fresh air rather than Devon's breath, despite the scary knowledge that really, if needed, he could survive for the rest of his life off Devon's breath, tangy and sweet and minty in an odd combination sort of way.

Devon is essentially panting now, lips wrecked and ravaged, bruised to the sexiest red Kurt has ever seen and Devon is just…staring, staring at Kurt's mouth and then into Kurt's gaze and then back to Kurt's mouth, a dip and rise of Devon's desire-bloated eyes that taunts Kurt with every pass.

It all comes to screeching halt when Kurt doubles over and promptly throws up all over Devon's pajamas. Devon's head falls back against the wall with a thud. Well then. The mood is effectively, thoroughly ruined.

So with a sigh (and maybe a bit of a breath of relief because seriously, if that hadn't happened Devon is not entirely sure he would've been able to stop the train from derailing), he guides Kurt into the bathroom. He cleans both of them up, trying not to stare too much at Kurt's bare chest, all gleaming porcelain skin and wonderfully defined muscles.

Once he finishes cleaning Kurt up, Devon half-carries, half-walks Kurt into his bedroom and deposits Kurt onto the bed. The rustle of sheets and blankets echoes in the quiet darkness as Blaine tucks Kurt in. Kurt is asleep before his head hits the pillow, beautiful features lax and his breathing even and easy. Devon smiles, permitting himself a moment to appreciate the sight – Kurt looks like he's belonged in Devon's bed all along.

At the door, Devon turns, takes one last look at the stunning, enigmatic, frustrating and gorgeous man in his bed and decides that late-night visits might not be such a bad thing after all.


	4. IV Pattern Recogition

**IV. Pattern Recognition**

(_Author's Note_: In terms of the timeline, this snapshot takes place after Kurt discovers Devon's true identity)

_Pattern recognition_

_Is kind of slow_

_Like a cool hunter watch the disarray_

_Keep your secret foolish head away_

_I will know you…_

Kurt is standing on the center pedestal smoothing the palms of his hands delicately down the front of his suit when he catches sight of familiar hazel eyes in the reflection of the wall-length wardrobe mirrors.

Although he briefly worries that the surprise and apprehension are visible – _palpable_ – on his face, it does nothing to deter him breath from hitching in the back of his throat, choking him.

_Blaine_.

Blaine takes a step closer then, as if Kurt whispered Blaine's name aloud, and maybe Kurt did. Kurt isn't entirely sure right now because the sight of those eyes, haunting and present and right there after so, so long, makes the world stop, start, stop and start again, in a jerky back-and-forth motion that makes Kurt dizzy – _so_ dizzy.

Kurt desperately wants something to hold onto, to keep him upright, something sturdy and cemented to the ground, something that is immoveable in this too-rapidly moving world. With nothing like that in immediate grasp, he flattens the palms of his hands on his stomach, hoping the trembling won't knock his now insanely erratic breath even more out of alignment.

He presses them firmly against the tautness of his stomach, like his hands will provide some semblance of sturdiness, something akin to an anchor, ensuring the maintaining of his posture, rigid yet quivering, tense yet _aching_ for release. His physical – nay, his _visceral_ – response to the presence of those eyes rattles Kurt to his very core.

Strong and potent, their presence seeped into Kurt's pores, blossoming like flowers opening for the sunlight, awaking after the long, interminable liminal space of night. He feels suspended in mid-air yet just as easily feels like he is freefalling without a parachute, caught in the vacuum-like pull of gravity, pulling, pulling, pulling him towards those eyes.

Even now, a year later, Kurt's body lurches and keens, the sense memory and hours and hours of practice instinctively responding, delighting in the evident appraisal and affirmation coating those eyes. Accompanied with that spicy, all-too-Blaine scent, the air is thick, full of him, and painted heavy with Blaine. There is no ignoring it or Blaine; no, no matter how hard Kurt tries, he can and could never ignore Blaine.

Even now, a year later, Kurt can't avoid it, can't avoid the pickup quickstep of his heart, the swoop of his stomach, filled to the brink with nervous, anxious energy. He is simply consumed with Blaine in this moment and it terrifies Kurt that he still feels this, all electric and sparked into a fiery inferno, blazing white-hot and in some sort of controlled chaos.

He can't think straight. He can never think straight around Blaine, about _Blaine_. It is remarkable how fast, how indescribably instantaneous all of it is – that soothing, comforting blanket of home.

But no. N_o_.

Kurt can't let himself feel that, won't let himself feel that anymore. It's a dead emotion, or at least a hibernating one, buried deep into the fabric of his genetic material, long since abandoned and pushed to the very margins of his memory. Yet it rears up again, the tsunami-churned tidal wave, blunt-edged and too fast to even rightfully panic and scramble for defenses. It just crashes and crashes, destroying and flattening, and subsuming.

It rears up again because Blaine takes another step towards Kurt.

And it really isn't at all fair how Blaine moves, all angles and lines, smooth and fluid, just on this side of grace incarnate. Blaine moves with a bone-deep self-awareness, each step a precise movement of his body. Blaine doesn't move superfluously, doesn't move wastefully. He just simply moves and the world moves with him.

Blaine doesn't say anything right away, simply just stands there, cloaked by the soft lighting of the private section of the store and stares, admires rather because Kurt is a vision: light, love and beauty in corporeal form.

Kurt's pale, porcelain skin, that Blaine knows is soft and pliable, a velvet canvas of perfect imperfection, is practically luminescent against the black suit.

"You are striking, a vision Kurt," Blaine finally whispers.

Kurt sucks in his bottom lip in an attempt to quell a whimper. It doesn't work. Hee struggles for a moment to find his voice, the strength to speak, but when he does, his voice is low, rough with gravel and way too much emotion.

"What – what're you doing here, Blaine?"

Blaine flinches visibly. He can't blame Kurt for questioning his motive for being here, for showing up at the last of Kurt's tux fittings. Not even entirely sure himself, he chastised himself the length of the trip over to the tiny, upscale store.

He essentially begged and bartered with Rachel to reveal the location of the store, something to this very second he's not altogether proud of. Rachel relented but not before warning Blaine through a dangerous, breathy seething of a tone that he better not mess with Kurt's heart any more than he already has.

Fuck.

To hear Rachel say that aloud, it twisted Blaine's heart, swiftly causing it to implode in on itself because really that's what he'd done to Kurt. He messed with Kurt, toyed carelessly and haphazardly with his heart, which Blaine so vulnerably, confidently placed in his hand. Kurt trusted Blaine with his heart and Blaine took advantage of that trust.

The vision of Kurt, cheeks puffy and slick with the sticky, salty remnants of his tears, and eyes bloodshot and red haunts Blaine daily, nightly in his dreams and catching him off guard. He knows – he _knows_, okay – that he shouldn't be here, that he shouldn't insert himself into Kurt's life again.

Especially not now. Not now that Kurt is getting married in two days.

Blaine walked away. Blaine didn't choose Kurt, just wiped his hands of their potential and possibility and only now did he even consider looking over his shoulder. It bothers him that he's here in this store because this isn't him; it's not.

But regardless of his choices, his actions Kurt is…gravity.

Not _like_ gravity but the actual physical incarnation of the scientific fact. Blaine can run as fast and far away as his legs will allow but it ultimately didn't work because just as quick he is snapped back, plummeting through the atmosphere only to slam into the force field that is Kurt Hummel.

True North – _Blaine's_ true North, Kurt constantly and consistently simmered just under the surface of Blaine's skin, skittering and inflaming Blaine's already oversensitive, raw nerve endings. As much a part of himself as his own heartbeat, nothing he did or could do ever really wiped the traces of Kurt from his being.

He tried, he really, really tried to rationalize his decision to walk away, to simply not choose Kurt but nothing quite summed up the reason why. Why, the question that complicated and plagued the human race, snapping reality until it broke like a stretched-too-thin rubber band, pushing logic to its very limits and still coming up short. Why drives people insane for its beckons to resolution and comprehension but supplies only dangerous ambiguity.

The faintest traces of pepper and laundry detergent fill Blaine's nose and he is catapulted through space and time concurrently to a weekend, a luxurious seventy-two hours, of discovery and exploration. In a lifetime seventy-two hours seems trivial, posited neatly into the little compartments in one's memory and honestly, there were no explosions or lightning strikes.

It was a simple weekend, really. Sure, it started with a bombastic leap in the impulsive direction (okay, maybe it did start impulsively) but the rest of it came naturally, softly. The picture of domesticity, they made love, cooked meals together, watched TV, finished a crossword puzzle and fell asleep nestled in the crevices and cradles of each other's bodies.

It was a breathlessly sexy weekend, one crafted not by the throes of erotic passion and tumultuous carnal desperation, but by the sheer actions of just _being_. The weekend shifted something in Blaine. He found domesticity sexy, monogamy sexy in the natural knowledge of trust and adulation.

There exists a comfort in domesticity. It's the comfort that comes with the decisive collapse of settling into surrender, of leaning onto that pillar of familiarity and intimacy that develops out of knowing and be known.

It may have taken Blaine by surprise but it took him more by surprise that he couldn't find it with someone else. He didn't have a problem with monogamy. He really didn't. He sought out monogamy, sought out the steadiness of being in a partnership. Yet whatever rock he overturned or turn he took, he couldn't find that thing, that indescribable, inexplicable thing that just makes sense.

Life is about playing for keeps and Blaine should've been playing for keeps with Kurt. He didn't and now here he stands drowning in the sight and smell of Kurt again. It is all so much and entirely not enough. It is too much, too much, so fucking much, so how can it simultaneously not enough? It doesn't make sense.

_Kurt _makes sense.

The situation may not make sense but Kurt does. Kurt always makes sense. In a world that is ceaselessly shifting under Blaine's feet, never allowing him to catch a breath or to pause, even for a moment, Kurt's presence guides back to solidity, guides Blaine back through the haze and darkness to his own body. So Blaine _had_ to come. He had to because he lost his way again. He just needed a reminder, a tiny, miniscule reminder that he is indeed here and present, connected.

"I mean it Kurt, you look – you're breathtaking," Blaine says softly.

Kurt's body stiffens and she narrows his eyes at Blaine, "You didn't answer my question. What're you doing here?"

Something in Kurt's tone siphons off the awe of seeing Kurt in his wedding suit and pummels Blaine into reality. Oh right. Why he's here. That damn why question masked as a what.

"Would you believe me if I said I came by to say congratulations?" Blaine queries with a hopeful lilt in his voice.

Kurt scowls, "You know I don't believe you. Again, what're you doing here? I haven't seen or talked to you in eight months, Blaine. Not since you found out about Ethan and I. And now here you are, two days before my _wedding_. What gives?"

Blaine's mouth dries up at the flash of painful indignation and tremulous heartbreak in Kurt's eyes.

"I mi – "

Kurt immediately throws up a hand to cut Blaine off, "No. Don't you _dare_ tell me you miss me. I'm getting married, Blaine Anderson. Fucking _married_ in two days. Please tell me you're not that guy, that selfish, narcissistic asshole who is delusional enough to do this."

Meekly shrugging his shoulders, Blaine shifts nervously on the balls of his feet. Because Kurt is right. He is being that selfish, narcissistic asshole delusional enough to believe that his presence can stop Kurt's impending nuptials.

Because isn't _that_ why Blaine is here? To get Kurt back? But then Blaine remembers. He never really had Kurt to begin with. They shared a weekend together. Beyond that, nothing.

Because Blaine made sure nothing went beyond that.

"What season and how many episodes?"

Kurt startles a little and turns his head to look up the familiar yet intrusive voice from his slouched and crumpled position on the couch. Through the dim light of the one side table lamp and TV screen, Blaine, with his hands mysteriously behind his back, walks further into the room.

With his bottom lip still quivering, Kurt peers up at Blaine through tear-slick eyelashes. His pale cheeks are puffy and his eyes are bloodshot; his hair is still styled immaculately and he curls in on himself, sad and heartbroken and so lost in his perfect, self-designed wedding suit.

"You don't know what I'm watching," Kurt whispers lamely in something resembling a rebellious retort.

Blaine pulls one hand from behind his back to motion for Kurt to move over and sits next to Kurt just as he hands Kurt a fork and a clear plastic to-go container of cheesecake, Kurt's eyes widen slightly, ever so discreetly, as he weakly takes the fork and cheesecake.

"_Project Runway_. So I ask, what season and how many episodes? You always watch _Project Runway_ when you've had a bad day or just need a pick-me-up. Plus I come with cheesecake," Blaine replies quietly with a smile.

Kurt's bottom lip quivers more and his eyes glaze over with tears. Never would he have thought upon waking up in the morning that his day would leave to sitting in the dark with Blaine, reruns of _Project Runway_ scrolling on the TV. Shadows of stacks of packed boxes dot his peripheral vision.

And there's Blaine.

There's Blaine – Kurt's vision is filled with warm chocolate-hazel eyes and that crooked smile of Blaine's that quirks cutely in the corners of his mouth and draws lines of mischief and kindness in the crinkles of his eyes. There's Blaine, all comfort and soothing waves of familiarity and _home_. There's Blaine, a solid force, that anchor that somehow, someway never detached itself from Kurt's being, ever steady and right there, right there as a reminder that yes, yes Kurt is safe and secure and not floating away on the changing tides.

"You know me," Kurt says barely about a breathy, disbelieving whisper.

Blaine's smile softens as he watches Kurt open the to-go container. When Kurt dips the fork into the creamy cheesecake, Blaine replies, "I know you."

Three words.

All Blaine says are three words, yet he could've delivered a Shakespearean soliloquy in iambic pentameter by the way Kurt stares blankly ahead at the TV screen, lips once quivering and his breath coming in short, hiccupped beats.

Blaine takes Kurt's silence to inspect the damage he could see visibly toiling in Kurt's eyes. When Rachel and then Santana called, fifteen times between the two of them before Blaine finally answered Rachel's eighth call, he didn't expect to hear what he heard. The only reason he didn't answer the phone in the first place is because he desired any possibly link to information about Kurt's wedding to be sufficiently snuffed out.

Drowning himself in his sorrows and massive volumes of both self-pity and wine, he did everything in his immediate power to keep out thoughts of Kurt – the way Kurt looked that day in his wedding suit, impossibly ethereal and magic incarnate, a subtle smile tugging on his lips and the pink flush to his cheeks; the sound of Kurt's voice, hollow and shattered and ridiculously stripped to the barest of bare, when he whispered, _I'm marrying Ethan, Blaine, I miss you, I do but I'm _happy _Blaine_; and the way Kurt's lips, soft and a little chapped from his constant nervous chewing and tugging, ghosted across Kurt's cheek before he turned and walked away.

He walked away. Fuck, shit. H_e walked away_, again.

Because really what the I'm-happy-Blaine bit meant was "I'm happy Blaine, _without you_."

And Blaine couldn't not do something to squelch that, bury it, _dispose_ it. Since actually drinking bleach (because really, he needed something, _anything_ to disinfect the vile, poisonous disease-like infestation of sadness, so much fucking sadness and hurt) was not – and honestly, still isn't – an option, it drank his weight in wine.

It didn't help. Blaine just kept on thinking, thinking and wallowing, thinking and overanalyzing, thinking and feeling like he'd been dispelled into the air, floating aimlessly in that abstract in-between space of loss and acceptance. Only able to blame himself, he drank.

He drank and struggled with and against the onrush of memories, so many memories, banked and filed in a period of seventy-two hours – Kurt tends to eat more of the cookie dough than the actual baked cookies; the flour fight that resulted in stomach-rumbling bouts of laughter and making love on the kitchen floor; Kurt prefers to shower in the evening before bed and fooling around in the waning hours before sunrise; the old married couple like argument over the pros and cons of cable versus network TV shows; and the Sunday night they spent curled in bed, Kurt reading _Vogue_ and he reading a book.

And Blaine missed Kurt, he missed Kurt terribly and deeply and desperately.

Then Blaine answered his phone and without so much as another thought, he grabbed his keys (thanking his lucky stars that he'd stopped drinking hours prior) and after making a cheesecake pit stop, he drove to Kurt's home that really is not Kurt's home anymore.

Rachel let him in before she left and now here he sits watching Kurt willfully stave off sobs. A man of presence and affable vibrancy, it shatters Blaine's heart to see Kurt now shrunken in on himself, dull eyes crystallizing behind a thick sheen of tears and resembling a lost little boy.

Kurt is broken, more broken than Blaine ever imagined someone could be.

"I know you Kurt," Blaine whispers again, fearing Kurt didn't hear him the first time.

Kurt's chest flutters and he peers back at Blaine from under those tear-slicked eyelashes again. His chest flutters because there's that Shakespearean iambic pentameter soliloquy of parsed subtext again. Because "I know you Kurt" really means I get you, I understand you, I accept you, quirks and all and I think the fact that horde the little mints following any meal is adorable and that no, I don't think you're crazy _at all_ for alphabetizing your credit cards in your wallet.

It means more, so much more, than "I know you."

It means everything.

And it's more than Kurt can handle in this state. The sudden and acute knowledge that yes, yes Blaine does know him is indescribably heavy, heavy with so-too-much emotion and depth. Kurt is suspended in time, caught in the rip tide of acceptance and deniability.

Kurt isn't ready for this moment. How could he ever be ready for this moment? He's sitting in the dark of his home that isn't really his home, in his wedding suit and silently crying through forkful-after-forkful of cheesecake.

He is doing all that with Blaine sitting beside him and looking at him with _that_ look – the look that says I can see you Kurt, I can see each and every nook and cranny and I don't think you're scary or weird; it says I can see the darkness and shadows and I adore you because of, not despite.

It's that look that has Kurt whispering against, rather than through, the hiccups and tears, "He…he didn't choose me, Blaine…"

Pursing his lips in a thin smile, Blaine slips his arm around Kurt's shoulders to bring the taller man into a side embrace, Kurt's head neatly finding the soft hollow curve between Blaine's neck and shoulder. Kurt nestles his cheek into the warm cotton of Blaine's T-shirt, swiping at his tears on his face.

"He's an idiot, Kurt. For not choosing you," Blaine says into Kurt's hair.

Kurt closes his eyes against the onslaught of tears. Hos breaths came in staccato hiccups; his body feels heavy, laden down with sadness and confusion, draped over Blaine's compact frame. He can hear the steady thump-thump-thump of Blaine's heartbeat in his ear and he draws immediate comfort from it, that solidity he's been searching for the implosion of his world hours earlier.

It's a strong heartbeat, a tap-tap-tap, thump-thump-thump against Blaine's ribcage, a song of consistency and no surprises. It is the heartbeat that late at night when Kurt can't sleep, tossing and turning and seeking out the cool portions of his pillow that echoes in his ears, that rhythmic cadence which seemed more apart of him than he consciously processed.

"My wedding day, Blaine. My wedding day and he – he didn't choose me…" Kurt whispers sadly. "Why did he even ask me to marry him if he was never going to choose me in the end?"

The question constricts Blaine's heart. When he talked to Rachel earlier, she didn't exactly tell him the details of what happened, just that the wedding imploded, Kurt disappeared into the darkness of his home that really isn't his home anymore and that Blaine needed to get his ass there pronto. The question makes Blaine wrap his arms tight around the trembling body of the man that makes his heart soar, his stomach swoop and his mind do that crazy cartwheel thing over and over until insanity is the appropriate definition for his current mental state.

It makes Kurt curl his long frame, clothed in his beautiful wedding suit, into Blaine's arms, his cheek naturally finding that hard, warm patch of Blaine's chest directly over his heart.

Kurt doesn't fight Blaine or attempt to pull away; rather he snuggles closer, hitching his legs up under his body and wrapping his arms tightly around Blaine's midsection.

"Can – can you tell me what happened, Kurt?" Blaine asks quietly.

Kurt sniffles and wipes his nose before burying his cheek deeper into Blaine's shirt, "I um, I went to – to find Jackson, Ethan's best – best friend and best man for – for something and when – a when I…"

Inhaling a sharp breath, Kurt sucks in his bottom lip between his teeth and jumps from the couch. Blaine remains seated as Kurt begins to pace back and forth in front of the TV. His eyes follow Kurt's path; this is pretty much par for the course with Kurt. When things get to be too much, too heavy, too suffocating, Kurt prefers the endless monotony and shuffle of pacing.

It is one more grasping attempt by Kurt to maintain some semblance of control over his rapidly uncontrollable world. He controls the speed, the length of his steps, the path he takes, when he turns, how he turns. He enters the world of his head, cloaking himself in the velvety self-protective drapes hung with care and habit.

Blaine doesn't say anything. He won't say anything. Because he knows Kurt. He knows Kurt needs to process, to compartmentalize. Kurt needs to create a mental pro/con list, checking each item off in order to then file it away in any number of neatly arranged boxes in the back of his mind to return to later if needed.

Kurt chews nervously on the tip of his thumb as his bare feet scurry over the soft carpet of his floor and Blaine thinks he's never seen anything quite so sadly beautiful in his entire life.

"I found Ethan bent over the arm of the loveseat and – and Jackson – Jackson he was um, he was…" Kurt stammers. His cheeks were flushed.

The embarrassment and humiliation rolls off of Kurt in waves when the light bulb clicks on in Blaine's mind and his eyes widen in shocked disbelief – "Oh. _Oh!_ Kurt, I am. Oh fuck, shit…"

"I um, I feel like such a fool, Blaine. He was going to marry me and keep on – doing, well doing Jackson on the side. He – he only wanted to – to marry me be – because it looked good that he was marrying the most eligible man in the fashion world! I spent _months _designing this suit for this day. It's one of my best designs, like ever. I'm such a fool!" Kurt's voice trembles and quivers as his tone careens towards that almost-nasally high-pitched panicked lilt.

Smiling tenderly, Blaine says quietly, "You're not a fool, Kurt. And I told you two days ago you're beautiful in that suit. More than that Kurt, you are – I can't take my eyes off you…"

Kurt's whole body flushes because that look is back in Blaine's eyes. No, no it never really left at all. It tamed itself, muted itself and spread into the margins of his gaze but now, now Kurt stands before Blaine, exposed and vulnerable.

And now Kurt is the ice cream and Blaine is the spoon and suddenly catching his husband-to-be bent over the arm of the couch taking it from his best man is not nearly as major, not nearly as life altering. Because Kurt can now feel every molecule of his body, feel every beat of his heart and the heat in his veins. He can feel _everything_ in his body under that penetrative gaze of Blaine's.

"You can't look at me like that," Kurt states lamely, without much force of will behind it.

"Like what Kurt?" Blaine queries softly.

Kurt shivers. Blaine _knows_ what that tone, breathy soft and velvety smooth, does to Kurt – full-on heart palpitations, hot and flushed skin that tingles – _tingles_ – at the slightest of touches, and that nausea-inducing swoop of his stomach that resembles more of a building fallout than actual swooshes and swoops.

"Like – like you chose me. You – you didn't choose me Blaine. You didn't. You walked away, remember? Twice! And the way – the way you're looking at me, it's – it's giving me a complex because, because Ethan really didn't choose me either and I'm not – I'm not feeling very, you know, choose-worthy and please, please, _please_ stop looking at me like _that_…" Kurt babbles.

Kurt is trying to look everywhere in the room but directly at Blaine.

Blaine doesn't change his expression. He keeps his face soft, relaxed; he keeps his eyes tender and open, inviting Kurt to both drown and come up for air. But Kurt just stands there, fingers toying with the buttons of his suit, biting his bottom lip incessantly and looking every bit the vision of light and love that Blaine could imagine.

"I chose you, Kurt. I did. I chose you every minute of every day for the past year. I choose you right now, and tomorrow and for however long you want me. I was just too pigheaded and stupid and scared to tell you…"

Kurt swallows thickly. This fucking day. One thing after another just leads further and deeper into the dank, dark wilderness of how-is-this-my-life and I-really-can't-handle-the-truth. The low point of the day certainly was walking in on his fiancé in flagrante with the best man and while this – this monumental confession that he'd been waiting a year for – should have sent Kurt spinning off into a new orbit, changing his gravitational force field, it…_doesn't_.

For the first time in fifteen hours, Kurt doesn't feel adrift. He doesn't feel like he is floating out of his body, an aimless trajectory humming and buzzing around his physical frame. He doesn't feel lost or scared or hurt.

Rather, with this confession, Kurt's body is suddenly present and tangible. He is a corporeal being again. He is anchored, tethered to the force field of Blaine's presence. Blaine is the moon to Kurt's Earth and for the first time in a year, the tides of Kurt's heartbeat, breathing and mind are back to their regular scheduled programming.

And just like that, Kurt knows that, regardless of what happens next, everything will be all right.


End file.
